


Scraps

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [17]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Gen, Goretober 2016, Graphic Description of Corpses, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2019-09-22 23:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: Worst vacation ever.





	Scraps

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for goretober 2016; prompt "tied up"

The man across from me is fucking dead.

I’m not talking gentle-passing-in-his-sleep-dead, either, I’m talking entrails on the floor, throat slit like an animal, open-mouthed silent scream and rigor mortis straight-up murdered kind of dead.  I’m trying to stay as far away from the corpse as possible, bare feet scrabbling against the floor of the cabin as if it even makes a difference when I can’t get that far, wrists bound behind my back and keeping me low to the ground against another wooden beam.

The murderer is standing in the corner behind me, humming to himself, and I hear the harsh scrape of metal against metal. I take a shaky breath and squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself to wake up, but I still hear the noise and see shadows falling over the corpse’s face and smell death.

“You don’t want to do this,” I say, trying to sound authoritative but having the sneaking suspicion that I just whimpered. “I have friends coming. They’re going to be here soon. They’re going to call the cops. You should run while you still can.”

(They were supposed to be here yesterday, actually, but one of them called when I was on some dusty ass country road heading towards our cabin getaway in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere and said, “Sorry, we’re gonna be a little late,” and I was like, “Oh, a little late, huh? You mean like you forgot the booze and had to turn back around late or you’re canceling on me and I’m already halfway there late?” 

I actually joked about it, too. I said, “You know, it’ll be your fault if I get fucking murdered out here because this is seriously horror movie material. You know all the old people call this place Murder Park.”

They laughed and I laughed and I was told they’d be there as soon as possible, and then they hung up.

And that was probably the last time they’ll ever hear from me.) 

“Oh? You’ve got friends coming?” he asks, sounding a lot more excited than I hoped. “How many?”

(Three, at the very most. Probably just the one who feels too guilty to leave me out here by myself.

Most likely no one at all.)

“Like…a lot….” I inhale sharply when a serrated and bloody knife appears in my line of sight from behind me clutched in a large, calloused hand. He runs the blade straight down my chest, slicing my shirt down the middle and scratching my skin, beads of blood bubbling to the surface. “E-enough that you’ll get caught for sure if you don’t leave now.”

My whole body trembles when I hear him laughing softly right against my ear, and then the knife returns to cut off my shorts. “You must think I’m the antisocial type,” he says. “That I’m not good with people. But that’s not true at all.”

With his other hand, he runs his fingertips down my bare arm, and I go rigid with fear.

“After all, we’re having a good time right now, aren’t we, buddy?”

“What do you want?” I sob, struggling with renewed vigor against the ropes to no avail. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why’re you doing this? What did I ever do to you?”

“Hey, why’re you crying?” he asks. “It’s a little early for that.” He touches me again, rubs my arm like it’s supposed to make me feel better. “We’ve got the whole night ahead of us. No reason to get all bent out of shape already. I haven’t even done anything yet. You’re overreacting.”

He brings the knife down into my leg, hard and fast and without any warning, and I scream. The sound echoes off of the cabin walls.

I hear him breathing heavy down my neck, pulling the knife out of my thigh agonizingly slowly and watching the blood drip down the blade onto my skin. His other hand clutches my shoulder like he’s trying to contain himself.

“Alright,” he laughs, sounding breathless. “Now you’ve got a reason to cry.” 

His weight against my back vanishes and I hear him go somewhere behind me. Something heavy drags back across the floor. I try to pull my arms free. I try to shimmy out of the restraints. I try to get them just a little looser. Nothing works.

He steps in front of me—between me and the corpse—and my breath catches in my throat when my eyes trail up the handsaw he’s waving around with a careless grin. “How about I give you a few more?”


End file.
